In Which the Captain Makes a Dire Mistake
by DoubleDecks
Summary: Nearly a decade after being presented to him Tintin's Arumbayan idol is once again broken, and Tintin knows exactly what happened to it. (Implied Tintin/Haddock) [Note: I apologize for the dodgy Google Translate French! If anyone knows French and has any adjustments or suggestions you are more than welcome to PM me!]


**IN WHICH THE CAPTAIN MAKES A DIRE MISTAKE AND IS THUSLY PUT IN HIS PLACE**

* * *

Ceylon is quite a remarkable leaf.

It is grown specifically in Khmed by the most charming little company in Borduria that has just gotten its bearings; after three years of careful cultivation it is harvested and then processed at no more than 600 metres above sea level. Or rather, was. They are at war over there, last I heard.

And so the small package the young master has brought back with him from the Arab region is to be the last batch for a long while; possibly forever. Dried slowly into delicate ash-coloured wisps this variety much resembles spent tobacco but when brewed at the proper temperature will yield the color of a perfect sunset. Add the cream and near-negligible amount of sugar Mister Tintin takes with his usual breakfast blends and you have the pigment of fresh caramel.

I place the teapot in the center of the tray and arrange the cups with respect to the foyer's layout. A caramel for the young master on the right hand side and a sunset for Master Haddock on the left. Extra cream, should Sir find Ceylon too strong for his liking. Extra sugar, should Mister Tintin be feeling brazen today. To each a clean stirring spoon, a napkin.

I enter the living area to find Master Haddock on the sofa in his usual spot smoking his pipe, the young master at the opposite end with his ankles crossed and fingers laced across his chest watching the fire disinterestedly.

"Your tea, sirs."

"Thank you, Nestor." Mister Tintin takes his cup, gently testing the temperature at the edge with his lip. He blows on it for a moment, trenchantly watching Sir lump spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his own, and when the temperature is agreeable to him he rises and forcibly deposits the lot of it into Master Haddock's face like an angry damsel in a silent picture.

"_Malhonnête malotru_!" He slams the cup on the tray, leaving in a huff.

Once I am positive the young master is absent, I ask, "Will Sir be requiring a towel or bouquet of daffodils?"

"Nestor," Master Haddock says slowly through a labored breath. "I have absolutely..._no _idea what in the blue blazes that boy just said to me." He cleans out his eye with his finger, flicking Ceylon carelessly onto the upholstery and looking thoroughly oppressed. "But I am..._fairly _certain I deserved that."

"A dictionary, then, perhaps," I suggest.

It is not often the Masters quarrel. Mister Tintin usually has an inscrutable knack for keeping his temper in check; in fact after living with Sir for so long I had began to suspect his maker had simply forgotten to give him one. Though it is also with time that I began to notice regularities in Sir and the young master's cohabitation the likes of which I had been warned about by my grandfather (also a loyal servant of the Haddock estate) whom I remember quite clearly conveying to me that Master Haddock's father - or Master Haddock himself for that matter - may have never even been born were it not for the territorial boundaries that had been so carefully kept in the marriage between his grandfather and grandmother.

"One is entitled to one's own space," was the lesson imparted on me, and as a young man training in the Netherlands to uphold my family's legacy I remembered this lesson most vividly while doing understudy at the Chateau St. Gerlach, having witnessed the madam of the estate do to her spouse the exact thing Mister Tintin had done to Sir, only with an entire decanter of ice water. This was supposedly all over a brocade dress Madam had been planning to debut at a gala the following week, only to discover it had already in fact been worn out on the town by one of the maids on a soiree with her husband.

I do not plan to follow suit with Master Haddock and so it is with great relief I may easily rule myself out of the equation in this dispute.

My point, however, is: despite the healthy helping of adultery lumped onto their already failing marriage, nobody should have been in the Lady's boudoir without permission in the first place. Not even her husband.

"He broke it," Mister Tintin utters regretfully after I have poured him a new cup of tea in his room. I don't even have to ask him if he is well; he just dives right into the thick of it as he does most matters. "He broke my Arumbayan idol. Is he even _aware _of the history behind it? The lengths I went to just to get it looking presentable again? And I've asked after it and all he does is give me this dull look like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. Like he thinks I'm an idiot! If he expects me to fall for that he's sorely mistaken."

"Perhaps it is not my place," I tell him as I place the cream on his desk. "But might I inquire if young sir was using standard English?"

"Yes," Mister Tintin says immediately, defensively. But then he is unsure. "Perhaps." He is sure again. "No...no, most definitely this time."

As I have said, I do not often witness the Masters quarreling; however, when they do, I don't believe Mister Tintin realizes how often in the heat of the moment he slips into French. Nor do I believe it occurs to him that Sir was raised in and resided in Leith for the greater part of his young life and has near to no experience with such a complex, delicate language - he has enough difficulty weathering the young master's thick accent on a daily basis as is.

And to make things _more_ confusing Mister Tintin also has a habit of mixing his French with broken English, as I was up late preparing a meal for one of the Professor's events the following day and was privy to their arriving home from a night out at the pubs:

"_Je vous ai vu reluquer que fancy lace barmaid, n'ai-je pas assez de excitation pour vous?_" I could hear the young master chattering disdainfully on in the hall as I rubbed seasoning onto the roast. "_Votre 'Capitaine' ne verra pas mes lèvres plus jamais, sauf si vous pouvez contrôler vous-même_!"

"Perhaps," I say presently in the young master's room, "You might try speaking_ a bit more slowly_ to Master Haddock. He is rather sluggish on the uptake, if it is not too bold of me to say."

"I'd be inclined to agree with that," the young master says pithily, testing the temperature of his tea. Thankfully he does not throw it on me. "This is delightful, Nestor, thank you. I couldn't have made it better myself."

"I don't understand why he's so torn up about a wee wooden box-head troll with a diaper and a missing ear," the ever-culturally sensitive Sir grouses minutes later as he throws darts at a board in the study and misses, taking several chips out of the panelling. "-which I didn't break, by the way, if he asks."

"Noted, sir."

"I wasn't even in his office for long anyway! I was just looking for some envelopes and I suppose - I don't know, I suppose Snowy must have just hopped up there and demolished it!"

"Onto the top shelf near the ceiling, sir?"

"I've seen that mutt do some incredible things."

Sir is a terrible liar, and Mister Tintin is flying off the handle because the world has finally overdrawn on his patience and the debt is due. That and because he has only ever lived by himself; is not accustomed to, beyond the occasional ransacking, others touching his things.

Oh, matters are so painfully obvious when you are uninvolved in them.

"_Vous êtes un menteur et vous allez toujours être un menteur!_" I hear the young master cry from the landing later that evening, and Sir shouts back, "English, darling, speak English! You're killing me here!"

"And the worst part is he keeps doing it," Tintin seethes from where he is nestled within the window seat of his room the following morning. "It keeps happening again and again no matter what I tell him! He doesn't respect or..." his lip trembles, "...care enough about me or our...our friendship to stop going through my things or...or..."

"Friendship" is a severe understatement, if a stack of broken antique oak bed frames and destroyed box springs in the cellar has anything to say about it. I retrieve a kerchief from my pocket. The young master is now weeping a concoction that is roughly 50-70% crocodile tears - it is quite a queer sight, but then again I suppose under the right amount of emotional strain even Lawrence of Arabia or Superman might become a hysterical dame. I am not one to judge.

"Has young sir attempted to put the idol back together?"

"Not yet," Mister Tintin says through a soft sob, "I went through all of the Captain's modelling glues and none of them work on wood this hard or old, as I've found." He blows his nose. "It's only fair...right?"

"And then I went to fix the blasted thing and all of my glue was used up!" I have the privilege of hearing Master Haddock vent that same day. "Not-not that I broke it or anything, I just wanted to make him feel better, you know? Make him stop..._shouting_ so much..."

"I think he's avoiding me," Mister Tintin announces when I reclaim his half-eaten stack of pancakes, eyes open wide and gazing at the floor overdramatically as if he had recently witnessed and is recalling from memory the details of Frankenstein's monster. He shakes his head. "I'm sure of it."

"Sure, I've been sort of...making myself scarce around the house, but only because I can't understand a blistering thing the child says," Sir divulges to me as he collects the previous day's darts from the panelling and absentmindedly uses one to stir his drink, "I can't get a straight word out of his mouth and the more I try to get through to him the worse it gets! So I've been laying low like I usually do until it blows over - only it isn't blowing over this time, Nestor! Blistering barnacles, the lad won't even let me touch him!"

I much desire to point out here that seldom a word comes out of the young master's mouth that is straight in any capacity but I hold my tongue.

"I thought he'd changed," Mister Tintin laments, "I thought I was the one who could change him. You know, I'm fairly certain he has been nicking my office supplies as well. It wouldn't be so terrible if he would just be honest! That's what hurts the most! It's downright insulting!"

Hours later he has placed the pieces of his ruined idol in a wastebin and that wastebin outside his door like an entirely new totem in itself; a snide public testament to wrongfully destroyed belongings everywhere. Whereas I wouldn't have been able to picture this sort of behaviour coming from the young master a week ago I can now very clearly imagine him stepping into the hallway and saying very loudly in the direction of Sir's bedroom, "_I suppose I will be getting rid of this old thing now!_"

Of course, being in the hallway rather than in Mister Tintin's office, Mr. Arumbaya is now within my jurisdiction.

"You've got to be pulling my leg," Master Haddock says. "You're pulling it clean off. You mean to tell me he actually_ wants_ to have dinner with me?_ Tonight_?"

"That is what the young master said, sir. Formalwear."

"Thundering typhoons." Master Haddock proceeds to cycle through all of the movements he made when I delivered young sir's first letter of intent to him in this very study years ago and I cannot help but find it endearing, though this time around I must slide the half-empty bottle of Loch Lomond on his desk away from his desperate hand when his pacing has reached its conclusion, a letter of my own toward him instead.

"It may be in Sir's best interest to have a look at this before he dresses instead of getting himself into a state."

"Dinner? Tonight? I'm not having dinner with _him_," the young master scrunches his nose as if Master Haddock has been demoted from sea captain to common criminal in the span of 48 hours. "Why should I go to the trouble? I'd only be encouraging his deplorable behavior! Especially if he thinks I'm going to-" Mister Tintin's eyes dart to the floor as he hits the return lever on his Olympia and it zips noisily "-well, anyway."

"Sir says that his invitation is in the interest of diplomacy; he isn't planning on trying anything..._funny_."

Mister Tintin clears is throat and turns a trifle shade pinker. "Well...that's, er, good...to know. I suppose I _could_ tear myself away from work for a few hours. I have been fairly busy."

I should note here that the young master has not completed a single article since the incident.

"Very well, sir," I say, and I head downstairs and began arrangements henceforth.

It is precisely 7:20 when I arrive from town on my bicycle with the guest of honor, which gives me 5 minutes to set the table and cover the entrees. Mister Tintin insists on always being 5 minutes early for appointments but I have made a slight adjustment to Master Haddock's invitation - a 45 minute discrepancy to be exact - so the young master can expect to see him waiting punctually when he arrives.

With the record player still terribly damaged from Madame Castafiore's impromptu visit two weeks ago I have no option but to leave the small television in the kitchen on as I work. As undignified a distraction as it is it will have to suffice, as white noise is better than no noise at a tense function, I've found. I have also removed several segments of the table to create a cozier ambiance and the last candle has just been lit when Sir shuffles into the dining hall looking quite dapper, abeit meek and a little directionless without his liquid confidence - I am pleased to see him, however, practicing his lines under his breath.

"Nestor." He regards me with a distracted nod, taking his place and fiddling with his salad fork until the young master makes his presence known with a harsh little cough. He casts a suspicious gaze upon Master Haddock as the latter scrambles out of his chair in a smitten frenzy to see the young master comfortably seated, and requests only a few ounces of wine when I offer it, in all likelihood to smooth out the knots of aggression still lingering in his stomach.

"And for you, sir?"

It takes him a moment to discern my cue (an ever-so-slight shake of the head) but Sir eventually turns his glass over in reservation and Mister Tintin studies him intently like an ancient text.

Twenty minutes into supper and not a word has been spoken between them, the only discernible voice being the television in the kitchen.

"_It has now been six days since the fighting began, and there doesn't look to be an end in sight, I'm afraid._"

This is not going well. I ache to bring the night to a swift end but these things cannot be rushed. I steal little glances from the kitchen at how how they steal little glances at each other when the other isn't looking, how their shoulders jump back up to their ears and their chins sink down when they are noticed. It's absurd, really, they're behaving like children.

Half an hour later I am clearing the second entrees and I hear Mister Tintin mutter, "Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?"

_"A pre-emptive strike has been made on the Syldavian airports by the Bordurian army-_"

"I..." Sir blurts, "Well...alright. Okay, I broke the confounded thing. Happy?"

_"The Syldavian president, as you know, ordered a blockade on the Straits of Tiran, which is a main trade route for the Bordurian-_ "

Dessert still manages to makes it to the table amidst the ensuing episode.

"There! Thank you! Was that so hard?" the young master cries.

"I would have had it back in commission in an instant if you hadn't pilfered all of my supplies!"

_"Bordurian forces bombing territory that was agreed upon as neutral in the Ceasefire Agreements-_"

"I wouldn't have had to if_ you had just stayed out of my room in the first place!_" Mister Tintin's eyes darken. "_Vous allez le faire à nouveau, vous ne changerez jamais!_"

"O...okay, there's no need for that, I..." Master Haddock dabs his forehead with his napkin. "Er...okay..."

_"Que faire si vous êtes malhonnête sur des choses plus importantes?! Vous pourriez me briser le cœur!_"

"I..." Sir reaches a shaking hand into his suit jacket, producing a crumpled up piece of paper and pulling his monocle from his breast pocket by the chain. "Ah...uh...now hold on a second...j-_j_..."

This is worse than I thought. I must get out there.

"_This just in - Khmed has officially joined the war, though it is yet to be seen exactly what they are going to be mobilizing-_"

The young master is drawn from his tirade momentarily by the large white box I am carrying with a blue ribbon; having been sufficiently confused into silence he accepts it when I hand it to him and flashes Sir the evil eye one last time before impatiently tearing my decorating job to shreds.

"My idol!" he exclaims, letting the wrapping paper cascade onto the spotless floor as he lifts it in front of him like a proud father showing off his extremely unbecoming wooden toddler. "It-it's flawless! Nestor, how did you do this?"

Now it is my turn to cough. Coughing isn't quite lying by omission, nor is stepping to the side.

"_...Captain?_" the young master says disbelievingly, his eyes lighting up as if they hadn't been shooting poisonous daggers only seconds previous, "This is...this is extraordinary! This fissure here - how did you mend that? I'd been using an old band-aid!"

"I, er- but-"

"_Oh, mon capitaine! mon beau cher capitaine réfléchie! Je suis tellement chanceux d'avoir un tel homme doux!_" Young master pulls back his chair and hurls himself upon Sir, planting a large smooch on his bearded cheek and positively squeezing the breath out of him. Sir pats him on the back reluctantly and I believe I can see him procuring a few more grey hairs.

"_Breaking news: a ceasefire has been called between Borduria and the United Forces, reporting live from the border ten miles south of the Bordurian Ceylon Tea Company-_"

"_J-je t'aime, mon fils_," Master Haddock finally chokes out, and I must say, his pronunciation is impeccable.


End file.
